Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  ‘Yer ma was a pretty young thing,’ he said, gazing into the distance. ‘There wasn’t a lad in the city that didn’t set his cap at Bridget when she left school, but she wasn’t interested. ’Course, nobody knew why. Then she disappeared off the face of the earth. All sorts of rumours, there were. ’Twas a while before the truth came out. Yer da was a lucky man, everyone said so. Where are they now, Irini, me love?’

  ‘Dad’s not too good, Mr McFadden. He’s got silicosis and moved into a home a few weeks ago.’ I took a breath and stared at the floor. ‘I’m sorry to say, my mother had a terrible accident in Santorini. That’s how I came to be here. Dad’s lost all interest in archaeology . . . and everything else too. He seems to be fading to dust himself. Sometimes, when he’s half asleep, he has his confused head on and thinks I’m my mother. He calls me Bridget and says the most loving things. It breaks my heart. He lived for her, you know.’

  This was an odd truth, because that week they were together in my house, all they did was snarl at each other. Would I ever find out what caused such an odd relationship?

  Although I was talking to Fergus, I felt I was testing my own emotions towards my father. ‘I wish I’d known them both more than I did, but they were away during most of my childhood. Now my father’s not too good, and half the time he’s no notion of what’s happening.’ I sighed and blew my cheeks out. ‘To be honest, I really needed this break, although I wish it was under different circumstances. It’s been a difficult year for us all.’

  ‘Poor old bugger. I’ll go visit him when I gets home.’ He studied his drink, lost in thought for a moment. ‘Me and Tommy was good mates, years back. We had some rare old times.’ He grinned and stared into the past. ‘Once, me and Tommy made poteen in our backyard. The grand plan was to sell it and make a fortune, but we were scuppered when the still exploded. It blew the shed window out, ruined Ma’s line of washing, and scalded our neighbour’s cat.’ He chuckled. ‘I felt Pa’s belt for that one.’

  I smiled, seeing a new side to my father. ‘I notice you advertise poteen on the billboard.’

  ‘We do indeed, but it’s just raki. They look and taste similar, and by the time the boys and girls come in ’ere, they’re half-cut and wouldn’t know poteen from dandelion and burdock. There’s a huge number of similarities between the Irish and the Cretans – you’d be surprised. What were your parents doing in Santorini?’

  ‘To be honest, Mr McFadden, I’m not sure. They had discovered an archaeological site buried deep under the volcanic ash, years before I was born. I stayed in Dublin, boarding at the convent for most of my schooling but, when I was fifteen, I went to stay with my uncle until after college.’ I smiled to myself. ‘He’s a fine man, my uncle Quinlan. I love him to bits. I did go to Santorini once, but I wasn’t interested in the old ruins. Boring, I thought. I was drawn to the beach and the sea – but with my skin I suffered with terrible sunburn.’

  ‘Ah, I remember Quinlan – your pa’s younger brother, wasn’t he? Is he still messing with frocks and the like?’

  I laughed. ‘He is indeed. He makes all the costumes for Abbey Theatre and I’d like nothing better than to do that job myself – design clothes full time, I mean. I sort of fell into teaching with the nuns looking after me and all, but I really enjoy fashion and sewing more than anything. I’ve started a little online business, selling my own designs.’

  ‘Well, you could start by repairing those trousers you’re wearing, Irini, me love. There’s a great rip right below your arse.’

  I laughed again and rubbed my aching forehead, then my attention was drawn to a ruckus outside. The pub doors were flung open and a petite blonde, late forties, wearing stiletto boots, tight jeans, and a crimson crop-top, barged into the pub. She had to be one of the fashion team.

  ‘Can you turn the outside lights on?’ she asked as she approached.

  I glanced at Fergus. ‘Sure, no problem.’

  Fergus said, ‘The panel’s in the first cupboard under the bar.’

  I ducked down and threw on all the switches. The Shamrock’s interior lit up in a blaze of neon.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ the blonde cried. ‘Just the outside coach-lamps, if it’s not too difficult!’

  ‘Top left corner,’ Fergus called.

  I dived under the bar again and turned everything off apart from the one they wanted. The bar was plunged into gloom.

  The woman sighed, tension falling from her face. ‘Any chance of a coffee, black, strong, no sugar?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll bring it out.’ I turned to Fergus. ‘How do I turn the bar lights on? I can hardly see a thing.’

  Fergus struggled off his stool. ‘’Ere, I’ll do it.’

  The woman interrupted. ‘Proper coffee, not that iced stuff, okay? Ask for Paula if you don’t see me.’ She ran her ruby nails through her hair and sighed so hard her body seemed to deflate a little. She turned to the door, but before reaching it a scruffy-bearded man, with panic on his face and his arm in plaster, rushed in.

  The man ushered what I thought must be a model straight through to the toilets, then turned and strode towards me. My heart leaped into the back of my throat. It was the guy from the airport, the cyclist that I hit with the car. Angelo.

  In the gloom of the Shamrock, Angelo didn’t recognise me immediately, so I ducked behind the bar and watched them in the mirror.

  Paula raked through her hair again. ‘Another day wasted. Hell! Two models with the trots already, and now this. What else can go wrong? How is she?’

  Angelo shook his head. ‘She cannot continue. We have three more outfits to shoot today. This is crazy. What can we do? We’re supposed to go to print on Monday! It’s impossible to get anyone else here before we lose the light. Malaka!’ he swore loudly. His voice came closer, above my head, and I realised he had leaned over the bar. ‘Excuse me! Could you take a glass of water into the Ladies? Thank you.’

  I bobbed up. Our faces were only inches apart as Fergus flicked the bar lights on. Angelo’s eyes widened and he took a step back, his hands raised.

  He cried something in Greek, followed by, ‘It’s you! You are a jinx on me! Shoe-wrecker, bone-breaker, and reckless driver. Why are you here?’ He hugged the plaster cast to his chest, as if to save it from further damage, and turned back to Paula. ‘This is all her fault!’

  Paula raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Then she turned to me. ‘Was it you who ran him over?’

  I’m not sure if I caught a glint of glee in her eyes. ‘It was an accident. I’m truly sorry.’

  She nodded and squinted at me. ‘Under the circumstances, I think perhaps you can help us out. After all, this chaos is partly your fault.’

  ‘My fault?’

  ‘Absolutely. We’re a day behind with the shoot because he was in hospital. Now the models have food poisoning or a virus, who knows? Anyway, the fact is, we need a model right now.’ She eyeballed me again, and despite her small size, I could see she wasn’t a person you’d mess with. ‘Come around the bar, let me take a look at you,’ she ordered.

  I glanced at Fergus, hoping for an ally.

  ‘Go on, girl. What are you waiting for?’ he said.

  ‘No!’ Angelo shouted. ‘I don’t want this woman anywhere near me, or the shoot! She has the evil eye on her. Besides, she’s too old!’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine!’

  ‘See!’ Angelo retorted.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Paula yelled back. ‘The range is aimed at thirty-five to fifty, and what woman in that age group doesn’t want to look twenty-nine? It’s about time we used a mature model.’

  Mature model!

  Paula continued, ‘Anyway, you told me yourself, if you hadn’t been calling me – checking up on me – you’d have seen her and it wouldn’t have happened.’

  What?! I could hardly believe what I heard. ‘You were on the phone . . . while riding your bike? You sod! You let me believe it was all my fault!’ I turned to Paula. ‘I’ll do it!’


  Angelo was protesting when a terrific din stopped us all. Fergus was ringing the brass ‘time’ bell that hung over the bar.

  ‘Now, now, children. This poor girl’s mother is dying in hospital, that’s why she’s working here. She needs the money really badly for hospital costs. So, stop the fighting, hire her for your modelling job, and I’ll look after the bar.’

  Angelo bit on his unkempt moustache and then turned to me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise your mother was so ill. How is she?’

  My blood was still boiling. I shook my head and lowered my eyes. ‘There’s not much hope. She’s having a brain scan this afternoon. I haven’t had a chance to speak with the hospital yet.’

  Paula interrupted. ‘Let your hair free and come out so we can see you.’

  I dragged the elastic from my ponytail, allowing my crazy red hair free rein as I emerged from behind the bar.

  ‘Amazing,’ she muttered. ‘Turn around.’

  I turned, feeling Angelo’s eyes on me. Heat rose in my face.

  ‘Okay, we’ve established you’ve got the body for the job,’ Paula said. ‘But let’s see how you get on with the modelling. If we like your work, five hundred a day, plus full board at Elounda Paradise if you want it. That’s the deal we give all our models.’

  ‘What?’ Angelo cried. ‘Paula, we should discuss these things!’

  Stepping up to him, Paula tried to make herself taller. ‘I’m managing this shoot – it’s my call.’

  ‘Remember, I can still fire you,’ he said quietly.

  She stretched her neck and responded, ‘Don’t forget, I can walk away from this.’

  They eyeballed each other, then Paula turned her back on him. They were like the man and woman on a Bavarian weather clock, I thought – destined to spend their time together, but never actually meeting in the middle.

  ‘Okay, you win,’ Angelo said quietly. ‘Take her to the trailer. Tell Sofia we want a fast makeover, but don’t blame me if this doesn’t work. I’m telling you, she’s bad luck!’

  Paula gave him a don’t tell me what to do look.

  If it was the last thing I did, I would prove Angelo wrong. Modelling couldn’t be that difficult – especially for a mature model.

  Paula led me to a Portakabin, which stood in the supermarket forecourt across the road. When I entered, I saw it was divided into four parts. To the left, a dress rail stuffed with clothes ran to a square window at the end of the room. Against the opposite wall sat a well-worn sofa and a small fridge. To the right of the door, one complete wall was taken by shoe- and hatboxes, a couple of packs of bottled water, and a door into a small boxed-off area.

  The fourth quarter of the trailer was the domain of the beautician. I had never seen such a confusion of lotions and potions. Narrow shelves of lipsticks and coloured pencils were reflected in the large mirror they surrounded. There was a small table, also cluttered with cosmetics.

  Sofia, a classic Greek beauty with dark, waist-length hair, was small, curvy, and probably in her mid-forties. She lifted my chin, peered into my face, and then muttered something in Greek.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Ah, I Sofia. I no good speak English. Sit.’ She manoeuvred me into a chair before the bulb-framed mirror. ‘You is easy woman, I thinks.’ Her dark eyes danced merrily beneath sweeping lashes.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You English women, you all easy.’

  ‘I’m Irish.’ I glared at her reflection.

  ‘Is same.’ She dragged my hair back. ‘No ’airs on lip. Skin goods. And eyes, green like bowels of salad.’

  Was that supposed to be a compliment? I imagined the chat-up line: Darling, your eyes are like bowels of salad. They’d be talking shite, of course. I giggled at my own joke.

  ‘What?’ Sofia stiffened. ‘You laugh at my English? Is no nice. You’s in my country. How much Greek you speak?’ She put her fists on her hips.

  ‘No, sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you, Sofia. I’m nervous, that’s all. I’ve never done this before.’

  The make-up artist considered my words. ‘Okays, let’s start. You have beautiful hairs.’

  ‘Thank you. How do I say thank you in Greek?’

  She grinned again, her mouth wide and her olive face suddenly jolly. ‘Efharisto.’

  ‘A fairy’s toe?’

  ‘Very good, you say like a Cretan. No talks now. I fix hairs, nails, and face of yours.’

  While my hands were in a contraption that dried my scarlet acrylic nails quickly, I watched her apply a range of colours to my skin, starting with pale cream right through to brown. My eyelids and cheekbones and the bridge of my nose were highlighted, then my face was sculptured with various tones of brown and beige. My brows were darkened and shaped, false lashes glued on and mascaraed. Then my lips were highlighted, outlined, and painted with three shades of red, making them appear almost twice their size.

  I kept fretting about my mother, the MRI scan, and the prognosis. I longed to phone the hospital but I could just imagine Sofia’s agitation if I held a phone against her masterpiece.

  Sofia worked something through my hair, making me yelp when she touched my stitches.

  ‘Ah, you have problem. No worries, I be careful,’ she said, as she transformed the frizz into an avalanche of auburn curls that cascaded over my shoulders. I studied myself in the mirror, unable to believe the result of her work. I screwed my nose up; so did my reflection. Amazing – the beauty in the mirror really was me. I felt like a fraud, but I wished my mother could see me. Another selfish thought. I sighed deeply.

  ‘You no like?’ Sofia scowled.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s me, Sofia. You’ve done a fantastic job. Efharisto!’

  Paula came in, huffed, and dragged an outfit swathed in a plastic bag from the rail. She thrust it towards me. ‘Put this on. What size shoes do you take?’ She frowned at my feet.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Just my luck. An amateur with big feet.’

  I bit back a retort and smiled apologetically.

  ‘Don’t smile, you’ll crease the make-up,’ Paula snapped before she headed for the door. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  I put on a long, wraparound white linen skirt and a matching top that fell in soft folds over my breasts. The outfit was beautiful, but my knickers, dark blue, showed right through the skirt.

  My underwear hadn’t always been that colour; they started life as brilliant white. After a brief affair with a navy T-shirt in the washing machine, they were destined to spend the rest of their lives like Billie Holiday – seriously affected by the blues.

  What to do? I scrunched the back between my cheeks and twisted around to study myself in the mirrored door. I was just deciding what to do about the front when Paula entered. I got such a fright when the mirror on the door swung around, my gluteus maximus let go of the fabric, which immediately sprang back into a dark triangle beneath the skirt.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Paula wailed. ‘You can get those off right now!’

  ‘What? I’m not going out there with no underwear! What do you think I am?’

  ‘Well, obviously Angelo was right, you’re not a bloody model, and the way you’re shaping up you never will be! Don’t talk, you’ll ruin the make-up.’

  I thought Paula was my ally, but she blew hot and cold. It couldn’t be easy working with Angelo. Nevertheless, I refused to exit the trailer in a skirt you could practically see through and no undies. People were in the street, watching the shoot. Angelo was out there. That thought alone brought heat to my cheeks. I’d be humiliated.

  Was this the end of it all? Me letting everyone down at the first hurdle? I had made a fool of myself thinking I could do the job. I cursed myself. Should I give up now, when this could be the beginning of an adventure, a dream?

  Sofia rummaged through a hatbox marked Swimwear and held out a pair of white bikini bottoms. I nodded gratefully and caught a sympathetic glance.

  Paula stared
at the ceiling and tapped her foot while I changed. ‘The biggest shoes we’ve got are sixes,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to hold one and have the other hanging off your foot.’

  I nodded, afraid to speak or smile. It was difficult to know how to make her like me. Her complaints seemed routine, not personal, and in an odd way I admired her for that.

  ‘Angelo will help you pose. He knows what he’s doing.’

  That thought alone ramped up the tension. I had to loosen up, enjoy the experience. After all, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  Paula examined me. ‘I suppose you’ll have to do. Breathe, drop your shoulders, stretch your neck, relax.’ She opened the door. ‘Off you go.’

  Relax? Easy for her to say. But what else could go wrong? I would simply obey orders and get on with the job.

  Sofia led me out of the trailer. Holding my breath, unsure of myself, I stepped out of the Portakabin. Everyone turned and, for a moment, I felt like a star, but then I was reminded of my cancelled wedding. This is how I would have felt in my beautiful dress, stepping into the church, walking down the aisle towards Jason, everyone admiring me. A shallow bit of vanity, but I had wanted it so badly.

  Angelo seemed relieved. He reached for my hand and an odd collection of feelings raced through me as we touched. A hint of annoyance was quickly followed by excitement.

  He uncurled my clenched fist. ‘Don’t be nervous, lady,’ he said, his tone cold and businesslike.

  The crew and onlookers fell silent. They watched as he led me to a stepping-stool in front of a huge barrel, as if it were the centre of a ballroom.

  ‘It’s quite safe,’ he said, and for a moment I was Cinderella and he was Prince Charming.

  Once I was perched on the vat, he told me to lean back and cross my legs, then he tried to slip a shoe onto my foot. Again, it could have been a Prince Charming moment, but it wasn’t.

  ‘They’re too small,’ I said, looking down at the casually-dressed guy in expensive shoes, who jangled my nerves every time we met.

  ‘Don’t talk; keep your face still. You don’t have to stand in them, so let’s try to squeeze your feet in.’ I grabbed his shoulders to steady myself, willing my feet into the shoes. While he struggled with the footwear, the wraparound skirt fell open and I thanked God for Sofia and the swimwear.